The Masters' Chronicles 033- Subject Thirty-Three
by Fainmaca
Summary: An unrivalled swordswoman. A deadly hunter. A fearsome monster. Elinor of Kerack, Witcheress of the School of the Cat, is all of these things. Learn what helped make her into the most dangerous Witcher of her generation. Based on characters and events from the first International edition of the Witcher School LARP in Poland.


The crackling of flames filled the air, twisting billows of thick, cloying smoke rising on swift air currents to fill the sky overhead. The stench of burning straw and wood mingled with the aroma of scorched flesh, filling the nostrils and clinging to the roof of the mouth. Groans of pain echoed from underneath smouldering piles of rubble, the sobs of the dying swiftly growing quieter, giving way to the snap and pop of superheated wood turning to dust.

Mournful wails rolled over the remains of the village, the final struggles of the few remaining within who yet lived. Here, a mother tugged numbly at a still-burning piece of timber, trying to reach the still, lifeless forms of her children trapped underneath. There, a man sat in utter silence, staring at hands stained with blood from his own ruptured guts. Everywhere the eye turned, scenes of devastation waited.

Through it all, only one figure still remained on her feet. Tall for a Northern woman, she still measured no more than a metre and a half or so. Her slim but powerfully built frame was decked out in a heavy cloth gambeson that reached halfway down her shins, while a pair of leather vambraces covered her forearms and a steel gorget protected her throat. Her heavy black boots were now stained with black soot and white ash, the powder mixing with split blood to make a thick paste that clung to their soles like mud.

A waterfall of fire-red hair tumbled across her shoulders, catching the light of the flames in crimson flashes as she turned her head, the outline of her regal, chiselled features picked out by the inferno that surrounded her. Dark shadows danced around finely sculpted cheekbones and a firm jawline, giving her expression a haunting, inhuman light, as though some malevolent shade danced beneath the porcelain skin. Her lips gleamed scarlet, although it was hard to tell if this was just a trick of the light, her natural complexion, or whether the fierce figure had actually been drinking blood. Most haunting of all, however, were the eyes that blazed within those features. Animalistic yellow light glowed in those orbs, a bestial, luminous flame far brighter than any that ravaged the village. The slitted pupils narrowed in the flickering gloom, glancing about to quickly scan the carnage. Any whose gaze that dread stare found would immediately wilt before it, for there was no kindness to be found in those eyes. No compassion, no mercy. Only an icy chill and dispassionate, relentless efficiency. Nothing would stand in her way.

The figure reached up to her breast, gloved fingers touching the silver medallion that rested against the dark cloth of her gambeson. The figure of a snarling cat's head bared its teeth under her fingertips, the razor-sharp fangs gleaming in the firelight. Emerald eyes glowed with ethereal light, sparkling against the warmth of the flames.

The Witcheress looked down at the sword that still rested in her free hand. Droplets of crimson flowed along its edge, leaving a trail of spattering droplets in the dust behind her. The runes etched into the steel burned with arcane energy, drawing power and potency from the weapon's wielder. She could feel the etchings reinforcing the blade, sharpening its edge and protecting it from wear and damage. For as long as she would hold it, the sword would become a fearsome implement of destruction, on unrivalled anywhere in the land. And yet, the enchantments served only as a complement to her skills, not a replacement. Her natural abilities, combined with the advantages that her Witcher mutations had granted to her, already made her into a fearsome warrior, and one that few, if any, in the land could rival.

Her grip tightened on her blade as she lifted her eyes from it, looking ahead to the single building that loomed over the remains of the village. With slow, purposeful steps, she walked through the carnage towards the burning husk of what had been the town hall.

~o~0~o~

The forest echoed with the rustling of branches and leaves pushed hurriedly aside, a small figure bulling her way through. Tiny lungs panted heavily as the fugitive, a child of no more than seven or eight years, dashed headlong through the forest.

Her clothes were torn in many places, some from the thorns and branches that caught and pulled at her as she tried to flee. In other places, the damage was a little more severe. A massive tear split the side of her linen smock, a wide gash that she tried to hold closed with one clumsy hand. Her feet were bare, the tender skin cut in a few places by sharp stones and roots jutting out of the soil to catch her. Still, these small injuries did little to even slow her down, the youngster limping along doggedly, not even glancing behind herself as she ran.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she slowed, her chest ablaze with each gasp of air as her heart hammered against her ribs. She paused, trying to suck in a few deep breaths, leaning down to place the palms of her hands on the front of her dress. With a jolt of horror, she straightened, looking at the hands that had left long, scarlet smears on her clothes. She turned her hands over, looking at the sticky crimson that coated them, the metallic stench rising from them summoning a tide of nausea in her throat.

The memories began to flood back. The stinging blow to the side of her face, creating the ugly red bruise that now covered half of her features. The hand around her throat. The reek of stale alcohol. The heavy, moist breath on her neck. The sickening crunch of his neck as he fell against the table, his head twisting in an unnatural way as he went suddenly, unnaturally limp...

Something powerful seized hold of her, dragging several painful, racking sobs from deep within her. Her mind closed in on itself, everything around her becoming just too much noise and colour for her to process. Her legs gave way under her body, dropping the youngster in the dirt, where she lay, cradling her aching chest as yet more terrified mewling escaped from her.

For a long moment, she couldn't hear anything around her, couldn't process anything beyond the burning tangle of emotions that wrenched at her innards. Then, finally, a sound cut through it all, a deep, powerful rumbling, echoing between the tree trunks. It sounded like distant thunder mingled with the tread of a thousand horses' hooves, all combined with a thick undercurrent of deep, primal hunger.

The powerful grumbling was enough to wrench the child from her near-catatonic state, wakening her to the world around her. She struggled to her knees, looking about warily. The wizened old women of the village had often warned the children of all sorts of beasts in the woodlands near the village, mostly as a threat to coerce them into obedience. Wolves, bears, Nekkers and Kobolds, even once a tale of a three-headed hobgoblin who made necklaces out of the feet of children who didn't respect their elders, but the young girl had almost never paid the tales any heed. Instead, she'd thumbed her nose at the old crones and gone on her way. But now, alone and with nowhere to go, all those muttered stories came back to her mind, suddenly more real and intimidating. With a tremble in her step, the child found her feet before pulling a fallen branch from where it had landed in the nearby underbrush. She shook the dirt from it and, holding the makeshift club aloft, moved towards the source of the sound.

The youngster crested a small rise, pausing as she gazed at what lay before her. The nearby forest had been devastated by some kind of clash between two creatures. One, a large, scale-bound beast with bat-like wings and a massive head, maw brimming with sharp white teeth. The other, seemingly just a man. Neither moved, save for the heaving of their chests. Red blood glistened across both their bodies, vast gallons of it spilled on the forest floor around them.

The beast's breathing was shallow, laboured. A wet gurgle followed each shuddering breath, bubbles foaming on its lips. A sword, long and elegant, protruded from its breast, wedged between two ribs. one of its legs was broken, while the other was pinned under its body, seemingly lacking the strength to lift it. As the girl approached, a large yellow eye rolled in the creature's eye socket, but it made no move towards her, instead resignedly turning its gaze away, looking back to the sky. Another deep grumble rippled out from its pierced chest.

The man coughed, drawing the young girl's gaze. She scuttled over, giving the wounded beast a wide berth. She looked down at the fallen man, eyes widening as she took in what lay before her.

Black leather armour covered his torso, while an elegant scabbard sat at his hip, the sword belonging to it now buried in the creature's body. His hair was black, run through with grey flecks, while his features bore a neatly maintained moustache. From under heavy brows, a pair of burning yellow eyes glared sternly at the world, while around his neck dangled a snarling cat's head medallion.

The girl stifled a gasp at the sight. Even one as young as her knew of the Witchmen who prowled the land, seeking coin in exchange for their services as hunters and killers. For a moment, she debated fleeing, before the monstrous man could rise and grab her, snatch her away for whatever nefarious purposes such creatures stole children away in the tales she had heard. But then, as quickly as the notion entered her mind, it vanished, replaced by an irresistible curiosity.

She knelt next to the Witcher as, with another pained cough, he opened his eyes to glance at her. He stiffened for a moment, as if suspecting she may be some brigand out to rob him, before her small stature finally registered with him. He let out a pained gasp, pointing to a small waterskin on his belt. She quickly reached down to help him left it to his lips, allowing a small trickle of the clear liquid to flow through his bloody lips before pulling it back. He spluttered, but managed to get the mouthful down, nodding to her for more. Eventually, the girl helped the fallen hunter to slake his thirst, after which he nodded his thanks.

The Witcher's hands steadied, allowing him to reach down to his belt again, this time pulling a small vial of vibrant scarlet liquid. He popped the cork, allowing a waft of sweet, pungent air to surround the pair before he downed the potion. He winced, his body responding harshly to the crimson liquid. Panicking, the young girl put her hands on his shoulders, trying to push him back down into the dirt before his writhing caused further injury. As she watched, his flesh grew pale, the veins bulging beneath the skin, tinged a poisonous black. Then, after a few moments, whatever pain grasped him vanished, and he sagged back into the soil, gasping for breath. A few seconds passed before, much to the girl's amazement, the many cuts that covered his skin began to close up before her very eyes, his body healing with unnatural speed. She released his shoulders, allowing the hunter to rise into a sitting position. He raised his heavy head, nodding at her.

"Thank you." He grunted, still nursing his belly as though some deep injury still troubled him. His eyes gleamed out from under the thick brows, eyeing the girl curiously. "What's your name, girl?"

"E-Elinor." The youngster managed, still a little nervous about the Witcher before her. The older man picked up on this. He turned to face her.

"And what are you doing out in the forest alone, Elinor?" He asked. "Where is your family? Your home?"

The girl hesitated, looking away from the burning eyes. She looked down at her hands, then at the soil beneath her knees. The Witcher's gaze quickly ran up and down her small form, quickly taking in the bloody hands, the torn dress, the many scratches.

"Something happened." He muttered, raising a gloved hand to brush at her darkening cheek. "Something to do with this?"

"I have no home to go back to." She muttered, blinking furiously as she tried to suppress the shiver in her bones.

"Hmm..." The Witcher leaned back with a low groan. "I've heard that before. So tell me, girl, how do you feel?"

"I'm... scared." Elinor admitted, a lump rising in her throat. "I don't know where to go, what to do!"

The Witcher grunted again, closing his eyes as he winced, clutching at his side. His features contorted as he drew in a sharp breath, cursing quietly. When he opened his eyes, he looked past Elinor, towards the wheezing creature in the middle of the clearing. The girl followed his gaze, noting the sword hilt still protruding from the beast's ribs.

"Not a clean kill." The distaste in the Witcher's voice was palpable. He turned his blazing eyes towards the girl. "It will be some time before I can move again. The Swallow potion needs to do its work. I need you to finish the beast off, put it out of its misery. The sword only needs to go in another few inches, and you'll pierce the aortic valve. Death will follow in seconds."

"But I-" Elinor hesitated.

"It won't be able to attack you. Its wounds are too severe." The Witcher dismissed. "If you don't do this, it will be left to suffer for hours, perhaps even days. Worse, it may even recover from its wounds, and become a threat again."

Turning from the stricken Witcher, Elinor rose to her feet, stepping carefully around the fallen beast. Barely daring to breathe, she approached carefully, stepping past the massive head. The huge eye rolled around to look at her, but the beast could do nothing other than offer a low chuff of resistance. She stepped up to the creature's body until, at last, she stood before the sword. Her shaking hands grasped the hilt of the weapon, pausing for just an instant to stare down at the creature. She could feel its laboured breathing vibrating through the blade, the vast amount of heat radiating from its body. The smell of the creature filled her nostrils, a mixture of bodily musk, crushed leaves and sweet berries. She took a deep breath and, with all the strength and weight her tiny body had at its disposal, she pushed down on the sword.

The massive creature shuddered, every muscle clenching, then went still, head dropping limply into the dirt as it released a final, wet breath. A long, low wheeze echoed through the glade. Elinor waited, anxiously anticipating that the monster might rise again, but it did not. Finally, after an interminably long wait, she tugged on the sword hilt, managing with great effort to pull it from the corpse. The sword felt heavy in her hand, several feet of solid steel that she was too small to properly carry, let alone wield effectively. And yet, as she stood there, holding it in her hand, she could feel something. A strange shift in her posture, a sudden surge of inner confidence. Just holding the weapon, still slick with the mighty creature's lifeblood, sent an empowering tide of energy through her body. She could almost feel her spine straighten as she walked back towards the Witcher.

The old hunter, with his keen eyes, hadn't missed the subtle change in her posture. A small, approving smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, as though some deep suspicion of his had been vindicated. He accepted the blade from her, nodding his thanks again as he began to wipe at the blade, scouring away some of the gore. He glanced up at her.

"And how do you feel now?" He asked.

"I..." She had to pause, realising with a start that the fear which she had entered the forest with was gone. In its place... she couldn't explain what it was. The Witcher merely smirked at her.

"To become a Witcher, we learn to conquer our fears, become masters of our emotions." He lifted up the sword, allowing the blade to turn in the light. The glimmers of sunlight along its edge danced in Elinor's eyes. "We live by our swords, and our wits."

"I... I want to learn this." The young girl spoke with conviction, feeling every word in her heart. The sword danced before her eyes, its light almost hypnotic. "I want to become a Witcher, and never have to be afraid again."

At her words, the Witcher released a satisfied grunt. He put the sword aside, shuffling to sit a little more upright.

"Good..." He sighed, leaning his head back as he glanced up at the sky overhead, taking not of the position of the sun. "We still have a few hours in the day. Help me gather my equipment. We'll harvest a few trophies from the Basilisk, then we'll begin our journey back to Kaer Marter to begin your training."

Elinor quickly complied, eager to be on her way. Hours ticked by before the Witcher and his new student left the glade, turning their back on the girl's old life for good.

~o~0~o~

"Thirty-Three?"

The words that reached Elinor's ears were muffled, faint, as if travelling through several layers of wool, or over a great distance. As they pierced her mind, so too did a myriad other sensations. Rough linen scraped against her bare skin, while a cool current of air tugged at her skin. The smell of smoke teased at her nose, mixed with sulphur, phosphorus and a dozen other alchemical compounds. A sticky dryness coated the inside of her mouth, her tongue rasping uncomfortably over her lips.

Just as she began processing these sensations, the pain hit her. Fiery lines of agony criss-crossed her chest, her belly, and her limbs. With a start, she realised that she had been cut open, dozens of incisions marring her flesh. She gasped, drawing in a deeper breath before her lungs hitched, sending another wave of agony coursing through her. Her eyes snapped open as she jolted, moving to sit up, but the cold steel of a set of manacles around her wrists and ankles held her in place. Even so, the sudden movement was enough to pull at the countless stitches that held her wounds together, causing the young woman to wince in pain.

Suddenly, her vision was filled by the looming face of an older man, his glowing eyes betraying his nature as a Witcher. Elinor quickly recognised Petre's weathered features, an uneasy knot forming in her gut. Everyone in Kaer Marter knew Petre, and his grisly work, but Elinor in particular knew him better than anyone. She'd been under his knife more times than she could count, every time losing something else of herself to further his work. Now, the old Witcher leaned over her, looking deep into her eyes, carefully examining her.

"Look at me, Thirty-Three." He muttered, lifting a hand before her face. he snapped his fingers, a small rune of Igni creating a flame above his thumb. he waved it back and forth, watching how her pupils responded. His amber eyes narrowed. "Ocular reflex is slightly delayed, but that will likely improve once the Henbane wears off."

Behind him, in a far corner of the lab, a shape moved in the shadows. He clutched a notebook, quill scratching across the page swiftly as Petre spoke. Elinor narrowed her eyes as she caught a glimpse of golden hair, shoulder length, and a blood-red coat. Him. The Witcheress was always wary of the man who studied with Petre, the Wolf Witcher. The merest mention of his name made her uneasy. Meinard. She never felt at ease around him, always felt as though he was plotting something. What that something was, she could never say.

A vial was pressed against her lips, a sickly sweet liquid pouring from it. Swallow potion. She'd come to know the taste all too well during her training, and especially after the experiments had begun. Even though the elixir was far more palatable than almost anything else in the Witcher's arsenal of alchemical mixtures, the taste for her would forever be mingled with the memories of surgical knives and ferocious pain. Nevertheless, moments after imbibing the sticky potion, Elinor could feel the many cuts across her body beginning to close, the flesh knitting together at incredible speed. Petre allowed himself an approving nod.

"Regenerative response is not compromised." He continued narrating to his colleague.

He shuffled over to her shackles, unbinding her and helping the young woman to rise. She looked down, spotting the many lines that marred her flesh, black marks put there by Petre to guide his incisions, numbered symbols left over from her countless procedures. Some scars lingered on her skin, wounds too deep and grievous for even her mutations to repair, signs of Petre's earlier, clumsier experiments, little more than butchery.

As the young woman looked down at herself, the older Witcher gave her no reprieve, urging her onto the edge of the table, where he used a small hammer to measure the speed of her reflexes, then jabbed at her flesh in a few key points, measuring her pain reactions. He continued narrating over his shoulder.

"All vital functions appear in order. Breathing is regular, heartbeat slightly elevated, likely from the Swallow potion. Temperature..." He paused, pulling the glove from one hand before reaching out to touch her forehead. She shivered under the icy touch of his bony fingers. "...a little lower than expected, but within acceptable variations. Now testing cognitive response." He replaced his glove, finally looking at Elinor with dispassionate, clinical detachment. "Do you know where you are?"

"Kaer Marter." She reached up to rub at her eyes, stifling a yawn. "The Alchemy Lab."

"Good." Petre nodded. "And do you know why you are here?"

"Another experiment." She mumbled, looking about for a sheet, some clothes, anything to cover herself up.

"Correct."

"What did you do to me this time?"

"We'll ask the questions." Petre's voice snapped a little irritably as he replied, the old Witcher clearly used to his subjects complying. "Now, what is your designation?"

"Elinor." She winced as the Witcher's hand slapped down on the table next to her with a loud thud.

"No!" He growled. "We have been over this. That name is a part of your old life, and is no longer relevant. Now, what is your designation?"

"Thirty-Three." She sighed, resigning herself to the Witcher's insistence. She'd learned on more than one occasion just what defiance could earn her.

"Much better." The normally stolid Petre allowed a flavour of self-satisfaction to creep into his tone.

The pair carried on with the interview, Petre asking all kinds of questions while the Witcheress wearily supplied the answers. She could feel a surprising wave of weariness pulling at her, a growing sense that the questions were just a waste of her time. Were it not for Petre's insistence, she would have abandoned the questions long ago and left. As it was, with barely constrained patience, she endured until, at long last, he was done. With a satisfied nod, he stepped back, pointing to a table where Elinor's clothing lay in a neat pile.

"Well done. Time to test your new mutations. Put on your armour, and we shall begin."

"What did you do this time?" Elinor asked, idly curious.

"We modified your system by implanting the adrenal glands of a Kikimore Queen, and infusing your glandular system with a mixture of powdered Zeugl pearl and Naezan Salts." Petre explained, arms folded as he spoke. "By doing so, we believe we will have altered the body chemistry, thereby directly affecting what the students of Oxenfurt have dubbed the 'fight or flight' reflex. Now, when your body is given the kinds of stimuli that should result in a fear response, they will instead drive you into a heightened combative state. Increased speed, stamina, strength and aggression."

"How do you plan to test that?" Elinor, slipping her gambeson over her shoulders, turned to ask him.

"We're going to put you in the crypt with Rosalee."

Elinor paused, hands hovering over the buckle she had been fastening. She glanced to Petre with a raised eyebrow.

"You know what happened last time." She commented.

"Yes, I do." Petre answered, a glint in his eye. "Are you afraid to try again?"

Elinor hesitated a moment, the memory of the last encounter with the Wraith still fresh in her mind. Had it not been for the others, rushing in with torches to drive the creature back, there was no telling what might have happened when the young Witcheress froze up, her fingers growing numb around her sword as she stared straight into the eyes of the dead monster. And yet... and yet, in spite of what she knew, logically, the young woman felt no trepidation inside her, only a measure of caution. With a shrug, she resumed donning her armour.

~o~0~o~

The crypt, far beneath the castle, was cold and damp. Moisture clung to the walls in a thin sheen, patches of moss creeping across the ancient brickwork in small green waves. The dripping sound of fat droplets of water falling from the ceiling echoed through the gloomy, dark tunnels.

Elinor descended down the stairs into the crypt with cautious steps, a torch in her right hand held over her head, lighting the way ahead. Slowly, she worked her way into the ancient tomb, eyes adjusting to the gloom that surrounded her. Ahead, a large stone sarcophagus sat in the middle of the crypt, little more than a simple stone box.

As the Witcheress approached, a blue shimmer suddenly filled the air. Before Elinor's very eyes, the form of a woman burst into being, albeit a twisted, deformed woman. Her skin had withered, pulling back across her skeleton as the flesh underneath wasted away, rotten yellow teeth sat in a mouth that hung open widely, jaw slack as no muscles or tendons remained to hold it in place. A grotesque tongue lolled about in the open maw, twitching in a mockery of life. The eye sockets were hollow and empty, but still turned towards the Witcheress as though a pair of eyes filled them. She lifted an arm, fingers tipped with long, chipped nails like talons pointing at the intruder.

"You... do not... belong here..." The voice came from the ghostly being and from the air around her at one and the same time, seeming to reverberate out of every brick in the crypt. With those words, an icy chill filled the air around Elinor, turning her breath to clouds of fog before her eyes.

The Witcheress remained unmoved, standing in the middle of the crypt with her torch above her head. She could see now just how the wraith moved, how she shivered through the air like smoke. The monster approached her swiftly, then pulled back, seemingly failing to get the response she desired. She tilted her head to the side, curious.

"You do not... feel fear?" Her breath rustled like a sheet of parchment.

"No. I do not." Elinor had to marvel at the calm that radiated out of her, the utter lack of any temerity in the face of the monster. Mere days ago, she'd felt her bones turn to water, falling victim to the creature's manipulations almost instantaneously. She straightened a little further, boldness filling her stance. "You have no power over me!"

The spectre hissed, a low, threatening sound. Then, with a loud, screeching wail, the creature lunged at the Witcheress.

Elinor responded instantly, dropping her torch as she dropped into a crouch, palm of her descending hand slapping the stone of the floor. She forced a rush of magical energy through her palm into the stones, channelling the magical sign of Yrden. Glowing runes appeared across the stone floor in a broad circle around her, filling the crypt with the magical energy of the sign. The ghostly figure lurched, feeling the sudden pull of the arcane trap as it wrenched her into the physical realm. Her shimmering form solidified as she glanced at the huntress, realising her sudden vulnerability. She had barely even time to release a small wail of dismay before Elinor, sword in hand, descended on her with vicious fervour.

~o~0~o~

Waiting at the top of the steps leading down into the crypt, Petre scratched some notes into his journal, charcoal scraping across vellum in a sprawling series of near-unintelligible annotations. He only paused in his writings at the heavy tread of leather boots on stone, Elinor clambering into view in moments. the Witcheress paused at the top of the stairway, brushing her fiery hair back behind her ear almost casually, before glancing to Petre with a stiff nod. The Witcher looked her up and down, noting the lack of any kind of injury.

"You were successful, I take it?" He asked, already confident of the answer that his prized specimen would give.

"Rosalee will rest for a while longer." Elinor confirmed. "I've destroyed her form in this world, for now. It'll take her some time to pull herself back together after that."

"Good." Petre allowed himself a satisfied smirk. "And how do you feel?"

Elinor paused, suddenly unsure of how to answer the Witcher. She looked inwards, expecting to feel some kind of broiling emotions inside her, but realised that there wasn't anything there. Where fear and tension should have resided, only a cold numbness now filled her. She wrestled with the right words for a long, silent instant, Petre's keen eyes never leaving her.

"Right now?" She finally spoke. "It's strange, but I don't feel anything."

~o~0~o~

The smoking remains of the town hall lay behind her, little more than a pile of charred embers and splintering timbers. Flames danced across the shattered woodwork, spitting and popping as dozens of radiant sparks surged upwards into the night air. Elinor barely even gave the ruin a backwards glance.

The hollow husk had barely resisted her assault, the wood crumbling as the Witcheress used her signs, her swords, even her fists to tear it asunder. In mere moments, what had once been the largest building in the village was nothing more than a pile of debris.

A faint, mournful moan reached her ears as she descended the slope behind the ruin, heading back into the village. She turned, spotting a figure hunched over the ruins of what had once been a small home, little more than a wooden shack. Flames still danced upon the shattered supports, framing the figure's dark silhouette. As Elinor drew close, she saw that it was a man, stoutly built, with the wide shoulders and large palms of a farm worker. His skin was stained with soot, black streaks marring his hands, his clothes, the matted clumps of straw-blonde hair that reached down past his ears. In his arms, a small, charred form, the burnt body of a child of no more than five years. He looked up as Elinor approached, tears running down over his cheeks to mingle with the ash that covered his features, forming a sticky grey paste. A strangled whimper of fear escaped his throat as he spotted the medallion dangling at the Witcheress' breast.

"I- I- I don't understand!" He stammered, his entire body shaking as he clutched the remains to his chest. "We've done nothin' to you!" He looked up, only able to meet the amber glare of the monster hunter for but a moment. "Who are you? Why have you-?"

His words were cut off suddenly as the Witcheress' blade, razor-keen and shining in the firelight, sliced through the air, finding and opening his throat. With a quiet gurgle, he hunched over the child's corpse, becoming deathly still.

Elinor glared down at the dead man, her features unmoved as she watched the life leave him. She was still for a long instant, her expression unreadable, eyes unblinking. Around her, the moans of the dying were swiftly being replaced by the hollow crackles of the flames.

She should have felt something. Anger, regret, revulsion. The cold satisfaction of vengeance fulfilled, at least. Razing the hateful place, the source of so many bad memories, should have sparked some kind of reaction inside her. But instead she felt nothing. A cold void had replaced her heart.

The Witcheress raised her head, turning away from the devastation. Not a soul remained alive here, she had made sure of that. The Ealdorman, the gossiping washerwomen, the sneering farmhands, all those children with their mocking tongues… nobody now remained who had known the little girl that had fled her childhood home and the corpse of her stepfather all those years ago. Soon, the flames would reduced what remained to ash, the wind and rain erasing any trace of the village. Knowing that her goal there had been achieved, Elinor of Kerack marched out of the scorched ruins, sword still clutched tight in her grasp.

A figure stood upon the hill overlooking the village, hood pulled up around his features as he watched the destruction with amber eyes. As Elinor marched towards him, the old Witcher's gaze flickered to her, then back to the village. Meinard's expression, as always, was unreadable.

"Is it done?" He asked. Elinor didn't voice a response, merely nodding silently. The old Master nodded in response. "Good. So tell me, Thirty-Three… how does it feel? Did you find what you were looking for? Did all this slaughter give you the peace of mind you were seeking?"

The old Wolf Master's gaze flickered with the flames of curiosity, the slightest hint of cruelty behind his stare. Elinor bristled at that, recognising that the Master mutagenist knew all too well what her answer would be. After all, he was the one who had made her this way. His experiments with Petre that had carved out the human parts of her psyche and turned her into the perfect weapon. He'd only followed her here to see his creation in action, to bask in his successes. A bitter taste rose in Elinor's throat, realising just how much of a pawn she had become. And yet, she could do nothing against him. Until she figured out a solution to her condition, she was trapped in his thrall.

"To be quite honest, Master..." She sighed, weariness rising in her as she realised the truth of the words. "No, it didn't. Even now, after all of this, I don't feel anything."


End file.
